


Chasms

by SmallTownBard



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Child Neglect, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt and Jaskier appreciate each other very much, Geralt has existential crisis over flower-crowns, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, No Beta We Cry Like Men, Pining, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Slow Burn, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:41:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22553449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmallTownBard/pseuds/SmallTownBard
Summary: Jaskier was not scared of Geralt. He touched his shoulders and pressed against his side and stitched his wounds. On one memorable day he eventug on his ear; chickory-blue eyes smirking as if he was not chastising a mutant that could tear his rib-cage open with his bare hands.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 24
Kudos: 238
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection





	1. The Bridge & The Path

**Author's Note:**

> A short prologue of sorts.  
> We love to get emotional and needlessly existential in this house.
> 
> (English is not my first language, any corrections or suggestions for improvement are greatly appreciated!)

When Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, was very small, he felt as if there was a long, long bridge between him and the rest of his family. Treacherous and unsteady, the creaking cage of wood and ropes screamed bloody betrayal and pain as he stood at the very edge of the abyss it arched over; watching his family from afar, too afraid to take the first tentative step forward. 

When Geralt was very small, there was barely an inch of space between him and his mother as she led him deep into the woods, away from their small village. That inch of space felt longer than the Path itself and, on dismal nights when his mind was restless and bones aching, he could still feel her hand clutching his; could still feel the odd distant coldness of it, how it bit his skin, even as his mother's blood ran warm and young in her veins. 

Julian knew, deep down, in the same place where he knew how to press a string on the lute so that it would sound lovely paired with the one he pressed prior, that after that first step there would be no turning back. If the bridge did not kill him, the sacrifice he would have to make to cross it might. 

Geralt knew, with absolute clarity born of life long experience with uncertainty and pain, that there is no turning back. Either he makes the sacrifice and survives, or he does not and he dies. 

They both made a choice, in the end.

* * *

Geralt always hated when malicious creatures were hurting innocent things. 

He hated it back when he was small, curly and just a tad too naïve to truly understand the reasoning behind it, and he hated it even more now; ancient, sun-eyed and with too much understanding for cruelty. That kind of understanding that made him a monster under children's beds and a beast lurking in the shadows that stank of hunger. 

But rare as they came, there were still one too many an innocent thing in the world — too many for his two swords to protect. Geralt _detested_ innocent things because they were fragile and too easy to taint. Geralt detested innocent things because there was way too many and simultaneously _too little_ of _them_ and only one of _him_ and they _died_. Dropped around his fast but too-slow feet like aspen leaves in Fall. 

Geralt wished the rumors about Witchers were true, sometimes. He wished he were a heartless monster, only yearning for a good hunt and not caring what he hunted. He wished all the innocent things in the world would disappear so that he could stop caring about it, and he wished it more and more with every one of them that he was too late to save, too late to protect. He wished all the innocent things kept a good distance away from _him_ , so he did not have to watch as they got torn apart by hungry hands and teeth. So he would not be the very hand and maw full of cruelty that mauled them. 

When the bard had decided to accompany them on his travels, Geralt wished, and growled, and snapped. He bared his teeth like a wolf cornered in his den, tried to make his words cold and his actions _colder_ , tried to replicate that bite of chill on his skin from all those years ago in hopes that maybe finally, _finally_ the bard would be prompted to move on, move forward. Away from Geralt and away from all the teeth and hungry hands that made the life of a Witcher. 

~~Jaskier~~ the bard didn't. He was not scared of Geralt's teeth, and he jumped right back up when Geralt punched him, and he shook his finger and put on an affronted face and told Geralt to take a _nap_ when he insulted his craft. He called Geralt his friend, even if Geralt steadfastly did not do the same, and patted Roach and spoiled her with apples and carrots whenever they came upon another settlement. He sang merry, simple songs for children to dance to, and danced with them, and played their games when they got tired of dancing. He told them stories about innocent things that did not die.

He punched a man in the teeth when he drunkenly proclaimed Geralt a foul unfeeling monster. 

He laughed off Geralt's snarled scolding later, even as he yelped from the sting of getting his bloodied knuckles cleaned. 

The bard was not scared of Geralt's teeth. 

~~The bard~~ Jaskier was not scared of hungry hands and sharp maws, and he played his lute and winked mid-songs and wore flower crowns as if _they_ should be the ones scared of _him_. 

Jaskier got himself stuck in trouble like a fly in a honey-jar and did not have a malicious bone in his body, and instead of hungry, his hands were overflowing. Filled to the brim with colorful things that he wanted to _give_ — and Jaskier gave, and gave, and gave some more. 

Jaskier was not scared of Geralt. He touched his shoulders and pressed against his side and stitched his wounds. On one memorable day he even _tug on his ear_ ; chickory-blue eyes smirking as if he was not chastising a mutant that could very well _unmake_ him. Tear his rib-cage open with bare hands and touch that big heart with his claws, see what made it so _large_ and _soft_.

Jaskier was colorful and overflowing as he threw himself into hungry hands and toothy maws and tried to fill them, and he _was not scared_. 

Geralt saw innocent, good things die for less, and he was terrified of the day he would be forced to witness another carnage.

Geralt was terrified of Jaskier.


	2. The Dagger & The Crown

If anyone asked Jaskier what made him follow an unknown Witcher to the end of the world and back, the answers, depending on the person, would vary. 

Some evenings, he would entertain a painted room of nobles or a rowdy pub of locals, and he would feel his skin being pierced with calculating eyes, hear the hushed murmurs that stripped him bare. Undressed him of his silks and colors to see the plain white bones underneath, to find something _odd_ in him. For them, he might smile his most charming grin and throw himself into a canticle on heroism and good deeds, the utmost importance and power of stories. He would talk and talk and talk until they would either tell him to shut up or to keep singing or to _come sit here, pretty bard_ , but their piercing looks would no longer bore into his skin.

Some nights, he would find himself in a company of a lovely soul with whom he shared an unexpected closure, a rare moment of connection that grew beyond gentle touches and laughter. Locked in the bubble of sweet serenity, he might spin a tale of fates and forebodings, of following one's gut and trusting in invisible bonds that seem incomprehensible to most. He would murmur it, soft and warm into the space between two bodies, and it would not be spoken about in the morning.

Some days, he would stumble into a curious child. They would grab the silk hem of his coat, or hug his leg, or peer up at him with big eyes from a safe distance, and ask why he was friends with the scary Witcher who their mothers spooked them into eating their veggies with. To them, he would give a soft smile and say, easy as anything, that he loves his friend very, _very much_. That he was actually not scary at all once you got to know him. That some people found it hard to show care through smiles and words, so they used blades and grunts and horribly unpleasant healing concoctions dabbed onto bleeding knuckles instead.

All of these answers were entertaining, and perfectly suitable, and truthful. They were also the most cowardly of lies.

The true reason why Jaskier's eyes got caught in the frozen waterfall of white hair and then got heat-shocked from the burnt golden eyes and had not freed themselves since, the reason why he was only ever firmly staying _by_ or returning _to_ the Witcher's side but never leaving it, was so simple it was ungraspable. Enigmatic. Absurd. For once in his short life, Jaskier felt himself go void of words.

The chasm was not there, he would say if he were to admit the truth, helplessly. He would whisper it like a secret, because it was. He had looked into a dark corner and found frosty white and burnt gold and fallen brow and thought "Oh! He's beautiful" and then "Oh, he looks lonely" and _then_ , when the coin chimed against the table in three-lined-octave-G, " _Oh,_ he's _kind_ ," and- 

The chasm was not _there_ , he would say, allowing it to flutter out on a trembling breath, and maybe he would laugh to chase away that confusing, _ill-footed_ feeling. His Witcher was kind and did good deeds, not for a coin but simply because he could. The sort of heroic, selfless deeds that ought to be remembered, sang about, _cherished_. And maybe Jaskier wanted to make the world a bit brighter with reminders that those good deeds were possible, that hearts like Geralt's were _possible_ , make it a bit _kinder_ , perhaps, a little less sharp towards _good_ beings with burnt golden eyes, and maybe he looked at the gruff Witcher and thought, _~~helplessly,~~_ " _Oh._ " and "I am going to love this man _very much_ ", already tipping over the edge like he never dared to before, without quite meaning to, without any gut instinct assuring him that he would be fine at the end of his fall. The coin the witcher had tossed him an impossible weight in his pocket, dragging him down, down, down this entirely _new_ break-neck tumble like a secret ~~ _, because it was_~~. 

All of these things were true, all of them _a reason_ , if he ever needed one, certainly. And _yet_.

The chasm was not there. There was no groaning bridge in sight to cross, Geralt was not standing at the end of some impossible, cruel path that Jaskier would have to lose himself on first to reach him. No sacrifice to make but to fall and pray for his heart to stay whole and be endlessly brave if it did not. Jaskier could be brave. He was brave, most of the time — he simply avoided needless pain, ran away from _any more_ of it whenever he could help it, and then Geralt had punched him in the gut right after they met-

Geralt protected him as if it was a _given_ rather than a choice, as if there was never any other possible option. He had insulted his singing, had told him to shut up, had growled and ignored him and gave him bigger portions of meat for a week after Jaskier returned too thin from one of his solitary ventures. He sat, quiet and eyes closed, listening while Jaskier plucked a birch-bark-tender sort of lullaby on his lute by the fire, _did not get rid of him_ even when he could have and the _chasm-_

Jaskier kept the three-lined-octave-G-tuned coin in his pocket, alongside a pretty sea-shore pebble and a golden ring, all wrapped in an inconspicuous white handkerchief. As a token, he would say. A good-luck talisman. A protection charm for safer travels, he would whisper into a warmed, heavy air with a soft laugh.

 _A reminder,_ he thought, squeezing the small bundle in his pocket as he hummed himself to sleep, staring intently at the sky. A reminder of why he was always only _returning_ or already _there_ , but never actually leaving.

* * *

They have been traveling together for months. Geralt stopped counting them, lulled by this strange new arrangement just as he was still silently unsettled by it. It should not feel normal to have Jaskier by his side, but it did. It should not feel wrong to be separated from him for a longer amount of time than a few odd weeks, but it _did_. It should not make something warm glow under his breast-bone whenever Jaskier grinned and called him something foolishly _sappy_ and _fond_ in a way that was disquietingly _honest_ , except it truly, absolutely _did_. It should-

After a while, Geralt stopped counting the _should not's_ and _oughtn't's_ , too.

* * *

"Hey, Geralt?" 

"Hmm." 

"We'll have been traveling together for ten years, soon." 

Geralt did not say anything, mulling this over. Jaskier's quiet breaths and the rhythmical, pillowed drum of his heartbeat mingled with the soft crackling of hot coals and the rustle of wind in the dry forest grass. A familiar lullaby, as close to him as his swords and the reigns of his horse. He had not realized that not even ten years ago, before the pub and the man with bread in his pants and the _"they don't exist"_ he would have never had heard this particular tune, yet. 

Ten years. Ten years and he could not remember what it was like to fall asleep without the sound of Jaskier's breathing, his heartbeat. 

His pillowed, mortal heartbeat.

The soft, well-worn glow that lit up the space between his heart and his lungs, unbidden as always, was suddenly extinguished by a wave of _cold_ that threatened to overcome him. Mangle him up from the inside like no mutation ever could.

He pushed the cold out on an exhale, slow and controlled. He meant for his voice to sound dismissive, detached. Annoyed, even. Instead, what came out was thin, all gravel and birch bark and dried grass. Defeated.

"Sleep, Jaskier." 

Jaskier laid awake, humming, his hand white-knuckled around that mysterious white cloth he kept in his pocket, for a very, very long time.

* * *

Jaskier presented Geralt with a flower crown made of dandelions and buttercups and dog daisies the very next day. He complained and grunted, but had not shaken it off his head. The treacherous glow in his chest matched the bell-like sound of Jaskier's lute as they walked, tugged at the corner of his mouth, softened the crease between his brows.

A week later, Geralt tossed Jaskier a dagger. Jaskier already had a dagger inside one of his boots, but this one was silver. Better balanced. Better made. Practical. Meant to _last-_

"Engraved?" Jaskier breathed out, stroking awe-gentled fingertips over the etched flowers that gave him his name, as careful as if he were actually holding one. 

Geralt grunted. The blue flooded quarries that made Jaskier's eyes turned from admiring the weapon to him, nearly drowning the Witcher where he stood. Geralt suddenly felt as if he was _caught out_ , as if he somehow said something he did not mean to share, even though he barely said a word in the whole of three days they have been in this gods-forsaken town. Frustration and _dread_ welled up in him alongside with something _else_ , something wrapped to be hidden, a _secret_ , like a white bundle of cloth in a companion's pocket-

"Thank you, Geralt," Jaskier whispered then, and beamed up at him with all the sincerity of a sunflower turning its head to a sun. Except that was wrong, because Geralt certainly was nobody's sunlight, especially not in this situation, not in this _fucking room_ , not when there was so much _warmth_ spreading from that beaming creature that did not belong into a town like _this_ , into a seedy tavern filled with disreputable men, that should not ever _need_ to carry a dagger made of _silver_ in the first place, just as a _Witcher_ should never carry a crown on his head, and- 

"Hmmm," he said. Stood idly for a second, two, completely _caught out_ and drowning and _welling up with something_ , and-

Geralt had turned on his heel, took three measured steps out the door. And fled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dog daisy: Innocent love; a secret well kept  
> Dandelion: Surviving harsh trials; getting your wish fullfiled  
> Buttercup: Childishness; "You bedazzle me"


End file.
